


Forever Is Our Today

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Is Soft, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), References to Emotional Abuse, Sort Of, yes i know everyone writes this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale stopped the apocalypse. Well, someone has, anyway. They're still going to be punished for it, unless they find a way out in time. After that, they can find time to slow down, figure out what's changed and where they stand and maybe dine at the Ritz.Otherwise known as the obligatory post-bus ride fic.





	1. Some Things Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Me before watching Good Omens: I should watch this because I liked the book and I like David Tennant
> 
> Me after watching Good Omens: No other fandom exists anymore

The bus ride from Tadfield to London (diverted from Oxford) is long, or at least it would have been considered long before the world didn’t end. Now it feels like hardly enough time for Crowley to think about everything that needs thinking about before their personal worlds end in a vat of holy water. Which is quite a feat considering that only a few hours ago the entire world had only about fifteen minutes to live.

For instance, one of the things Crowley really needs to think about is how they’re going to get out of this. Heaven and Hell are coming; there’s no way they’re going to let a demon and an angel get away with so openly defying the Great Plan without punishment. And this time, even Alpha Centauri isn’t going to be far enough away for Beelzebub. Or Gabriel, for that matter. But there just doesn’t seem to be any way out, and Crowley is starting to think he might have hit a not-so-metaphorical wall.

He wants to think about how by some miracle they stopped the Apocalypse. Well, sort of. In the end, they didn’t actually have all that much to do with it, which only makes their impending punishment seem all the more unfair. But still, they were there, and now all the dolphins and ducks and great composers to come aren’t going to be a giant bowl of fish stew in the boiling, burning earth. That must count for something, Crowley thinks.

He wants, more than anything, to think about how Aziraphale hasn’t let go of his hand since they sat down on the bus. The angel hasn’t said a word, just keeps clinging to Crowley’s hand as if it’s a lifebelt, and Crowley supposes it is. In the end, he only lost his Bentley (which he will mourn for the rest of what is likely to be a very short life). Aziraphale has lost everything. His bookshop, his celestial position and his faith in Heaven. But he’s still here, all shy smiles when he agreed to stay at Crowley’s flat, and all Crowley wants is to enjoy the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand entwined with his. He’s wanted this for so long and it simply has to be part of some divine punishment that they’ll probably only have tonight.

Of course, he doesn’t think about any of this, because he wakes up what feels like five seconds later in front of his building with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Holding his Bentley together in an epic battle of will versus hellfire and then stopping time are both good reasons to actually need to fall asleep but he stifles a groan when he realizes they’re that much closer to impending death and no closer at all to finding a way to not die.

“That can’t have been very comfortable,” Aziraphale says as they send the bus and its very confused driver back on their way to Oxford.

“Wasn’t so bad,” Crowley says. Actually, Aziraphale is as soft and warm as Crowley always imagined sleeping against him would be, and he could easily sink into the comforting feeling it gave him forever. 

It’s just that they don’t have forever anymore.

“Afraid I don’t have any books around, angel,” Crowley says, opening the door to his flat. “There should be some tea in the kitchen.” He doesn’t keep much in his flat. He realizes belatedly he doesn’t even have a chair other than the throne. Aziraphale nods, glancing around in barely disguised curiosity. He’s never been to this particular flat, though he’s seen others Crowley’s had in the past.

“Your plants have grown since you’ve moved here,” Aziraphale says, gaining back a little of his angelic glow at the verdant greenery. “They’re beautiful.”

Crowley steers him immediately into the kitchen - he can’t have Aziraphale being all soft and kind and beaming at them the way he beams at everything else - and glares at the plants. “They’ll stay that way if they know what’s good for them,” he growls, more at the plants than at Aziraphale. 

There’s a wrongness here that Crowley can’t shake. Maybe it’s because he and Aziraphale never meet at his flat and it feels wrong to be here instead of surrounded by books in the now-destroyed bookshop. Maybe because they both know what’s waiting for them tomorrow and it feels too momentous for them to simply stand here making tea in Crowley’s never-used kitchen. Maybe it’s because they’ve never talked about how Aziraphale spent the hour-long bus ride holding Crowley’s hand when he was never even willing to admit they were friends and now they’ll never have time to talk about it. To see what might have happened. Crowley toys with the idea of opening another bottle of wine, a very good, expensive one since they’ll probably never have another opportunity, except they really shouldn’t talk about everything they need to talk about while they’re drunk. 

“So,” Crowley says. “Here we are.” It is, quite possibly, the worst thing he could come up with to say right now, but there really is nothing else to say. 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer that, just looks up at Crowley. “I should have listened to you,” he says, and Crowley could swear his bottom lip is actually trembling a little. “Do forgive me.”

Oh, and if that isn’t a sign of the apocalypse all on its own - an angel begging forgiveness of a demon. Crowley had entirely forgotten all about how Aziraphale turned him away twice right when things were getting desperate. It turns out a great way to forgive someone anything was to mistakenly think they were dead. And then - afterwards, Aziraphale had quite literally moved Heaven to get back to him and do the right thing. Figured out how to come back to Earth and possess a body when no one ever thought an angel could. Kept Crowley from giving up when it counted. No, whatever debt Aziraphale owed him has been paid. In fact, Crowley had thought he couldn’t love anything quite as much as he loved Aziraphale. It turned out that he could, at least, love Aziraphale more than he had previously. 

Besides, it’s not like Crowley doesn’t get it. Angels are supposed to trust Heaven implicitly. It’s literally part of their very beings, and that can’t just be turned off. The last time anyone even asked the wrong question, a whole host of angels Fell and it caused a war that tore Heaven apart.

Aziraphale has always been terrified of Falling. Crowley can’t blame him for that, any more than he can blame him for being faithful and trusting when that’s exactly what angels are supposed to be. It’s just that Aziraphale has always been more; more kind and trusting than any other angel, which is probably why he extends all that kindness and warmth to Crowley in the first place. So Crowley can’t ever see it as a bad thing, not when it’s a huge part of why they’re drawn to each other in the first place. He’s simply been patient, grateful for every little step away from Heaven Aziraphale’s given him over the millennia. Each one brings them closer together and they’d had all the time in the world to get there. Maybe someday we could, I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz had given him tendrils of hope; that someday they would be in the same place at the same speed, and until then they would still have lunches and dinners and late nights drinking in the back of the bookshop. Only now they don’t have any time and they’ll never get there. “I’m not the forgiving type,” Crowley says, and he knows immediately that whatever he meant to say, he’s said it wrong, because he can practically see Aziraphale break apart in front of him, as if he’s going to lose everything all over again. “Oh, fu-, that’s not what I meant,” Crowley says, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he tries again, and there, that’s right, because Aziraphale’s entire being fills up with so much hope it almost makes Crowley believe they have a future, even though the only one he can see involves a vat of holy water. 

“All the same,” Aziraphale presses on, a much smaller version of his brilliant smile appearing on his face seemingly of its own accord. “I had to try, you understand. I thought if I could only reach the right angels, surely one of them would remember. She promised She wouldn’t destroy everyone again. You remember. The rainbow?” Crowley nods and Aziraphale continues, filling the air with words the way he always does. “So if they were wrong, if I could stop it there, then nothing would have had to change and we wouldn’t be-” he breaks off.

“About to be disintegrated in holy water?” Crowley supplies.

The barest wince crosses Aziraphale’s face. “Yes, that,” he says. 

Crowley shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant about it. He’s always known that’s what would be waiting for him if he steps out of line; he’s suspected that he’ll end his days that way for centuries. Inwardly, dread creeps up his stomach into his heart and then his throat until he feels like he’s choking. He’s seen what holy water did to Ligur, and that’s if that’s what Hell chooses. They have any number of inventive punishments, most of which they borrowed from humans. Every one of them involves his utter destruction or eternal separation from Earth and from Aziraphale, which might as well be utter destruction, as far as Crowley is concerned.

He doesn’t want to imagine Aziraphale in Heaven’s hands any more than he wants to think about his own destruction, but angels are even less imaginative than demons and Aziraphale hasn’t killed one of his own kind the way Crowley has. He might be lucky enough to get away with a lesser punishment. Being called back to Heaven forever, perhaps. Which isn’t any comfort. The dread turns to ice. They saved the world and they're going to lose everything because of it.

“Well, regardless, you were right and I should have known that, my dear. I am sorry,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s brain stops panicking and grinds to a halt. That’s new, he thinks, and he can’t think of anything else except that he wants to hear Aziraphale call him my dear over and over again because he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it.

“We would have always ended up here,” Crowley says, once his brain starts back up. “Still, would have been nice. A few more centuries.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “I did some thinking on the bus ride, about the final prophecy.”

“The what?” Crowley asks.

“The prophecy - Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy!” Aziraphale says impatiently. He pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and smooths it out so Crowley can read it. "When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre."

Crowly groans. He’d forgotten about it in his panic. “You know I hate Middle English with all its f’s instead of s’s.”

Aziraphale ignores him. “Yes, but do you see what it’s saying?”

Suddenly the truth slams Crowley in the face with the force of several explosions. “You think they’re going to use hellfire on you?” he asks in shock. That doesn’t seem Heaven’s style, to destroy one of their own in a fiery explosion. More something his side would have come up with. Hell has threatened him with disintegration more than once and as a motivator, he has to say it’s not great. It motivated him to do just enough to keep himself out of the not-so-bad books but never anything more.

Heaven, though...Aziraphale has rarely spoken about his dealings with Heaven. He’ll mention an odd reprimand here and there, and Crowley always gets annoyed because each time for at least a week afterward Aziraphale will hole himself up in his bookshop and refuse to be any fun at all. But he’s never said what they’ve said or done to him. Crowley has never been thrilled with Gabriel and Michael and the rest of the holier-than-thou lot that ended up running Heaven but he’s also never thought they were even aware enough to come up with anything truly terrible. That’s Her department, with her Plans and Casting Out of curious angels.

But Crowley knows what fear looks like, and he’s had occasion to wonder what could possibly bring it out in Aziraphale, to the point where he’d rather be discorporated by guillotine than be reprimanded for a “frivolous” miracle. Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, is quite a lot braver than anyone would think from looking at him, and if anyone ever asks him to explain why, he wouldn’t say it’s because Aziraphale promptly gave away his God-given flaming sword and then lied directly to Her, well, Voice about it. No, he would say that anyone who can get up in front of an audience in that fake mustache, do such a bad magic act and somehow remain cheerful enough about it to keep doing it over and over again just has to be braver than anyone else.

Then again Crowley’s never been quite sure it’s not just because Aziraphale is naturally fussy about rule-breaking and always has been. The angel won’t even consider it until he justifies it to himself and finds some way he won’t get into trouble for it, something he’s become very good at and enjoys no matter how much he may say he doesn’t. This sort of open defiance has never been his strong point; he’s usually much more...subversive.

Crowley is snapped back into reality as Aziraphale goes on. “No...well, yes, they might,” the angel says, and Crowley only realizes he’s been smiling fondly like a smitten teenager when it’s wiped off his face by the idea. “But look. ‘Choose your faces wisely.’” Aziraphale looks up at Crowley. “All we need to do is switch places.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Crowley says immediately.

“Do you have a better idea?” Aziraphale asks. “As far as I can see, it’s either this or you disintegrating in a tub of holy water and I can’t-” he breaks off, though it’s not like Crowley doesn’t know what he was going to say. They’ve been through this before, and that sentence has always ended the same way.

“I said, no,” Crowley says. “You’re not going into Hell, Aziraphale.” That’s been the subject of a thousand of his nightmares, and the worst possible thing he can imagine right now is what would happen if Hell realizes they've got an angel on their hands. Much less his angel.

“Holy water can’t hurt me,” Aziraphale says, managing to both pout and sound annoyingly superior all at once.

There are many things Crowley could say to that, but he simply cuts through all the reasons he could give and blurts out the main reason he doesn’t even want to consider this plan. “I thought you were dead!” He can’t, no matter what, run even the slightest risk of that happening again. For six thousand years he thought the end of the world had been a Fall and a pool of boiling sulfur when actually, it was the sudden loss of a smile that could outshine the sun and the knowledge that whatever seat was next to him would always be empty.

Aziraphale, though, knows exactly what Crowley is saying, because when it's counted he always has, regardless of how oblivious he might be to things like fashion and what actually constitutes Bebop. His expression is so utterly sympathetic that Crowley would have caused a succession of annoying robocalls to anyone else who dared to look at him like that. “That’s exactly why I can’t let you go into Hell, my dear. They’ll destroy you completely.” Go-Sata-Someone, it’s like Aziraphale is staring straight through him with those big, blue eyes, and Crowley knows it should work, that right now the only plan they have isn’t a plan at all, but he can’t let that happen. 

"Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they figure it out?” he asks. “Because Hell would love to get their hands on an angel, Aziraphale. It’ll make hellfire look like a pleasant day at the beach.”

“They won’t figure it out,” Aziraphale says stubbornly. “Do you think I can’t act the part?” He slumps down in his seat, doing his best to drape himself over the chair the way Crowley does. “She’s in the street, she knows the risks!” Aziraphale says, in what is undoubtedly the worst impression of himself Crowley has ever seen. If he had ever seen any others, he thinks, it would still be the worst.

“Please never do that again, I’m begging you,” he says.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll work better when I’m actually in your body,” Aziraphale says, sitting back up straight. “And the holy water won’t hurt me. It’ll be just like...taking a bath.” He smiles reassuringly, though Crowley’s mind is still stuck on the mental image of Aziraphale calmly enjoying a bath in the moldy, dank cellars of Hell. Perhaps with a rubber duck.

Honestly. Taking a bath in Hell. Sometimes Aziraphale's eternal sunny outlook manifests itself in the strangest ways.

“It’s the only thing that will work, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Please, we have to at least try. Besides, Agnes Nutter is never wrong, and this is her prophecy.”

“Hardly a guarantee of success,” Crowley says; he’s less sure of putting his faith in some witch who wrote prophecies she couldn’t possibly understand four hunded years ago. Still, it could work, if they manage to pull it off. He’s certain he can act enough like Aziraphale to fool Gabriel and the other celestial wankers, and if he has the chance to do that he really can’t not try. “I suppose if we fail we’re no worse off than we are now,” he says. He’s already running through contingency plans, trying to figure out if he can get out of Heaven and into Hell fast enough if Aziraphale needs him to, how he could break into the pit if that ends up being their punishment of choice. He’s done worse. Only today, in fact.

Aziraphale, of course, treats this as if it’s an enthusiastic agreement to his plan, or perhaps an excited reaction to the prospect of an evening out. “That’s the spirit!’ he says. He extends a hand to Crowley.

“Now?” Crowley asks.

“We might as well. We don’t know when they’ll be coming,” Aziraphale says.

“Alright,” Crowley says, sending a hope (not a prayer) into the universe that this might actually work. “Meet at Rendezvous # 1 when it’s over.”

“Rendezvous # 1, right,” Aziraphale says as they clasp hands. “Is that St. James’ Park or Berkeley Square?”


	2. We Made a Perfect Pair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought Aziraphale would be harder to write than Crowley but it turned out that 4000+ words basically fell onto the page and ended up being a massive character study so oops.
> 
> Also, chapter title is from "Save Me" The title for Chapter 1 is from "These Are the Days of Our Lives" because sometimes you have to do the obvious thing and name every chapter title of a Good Omens fic from Queen songs.

Aziraphale’s instinct is to hurry, which is somewhat ironic, because he’s never been one to go too fast. He much prefers to take his time and let the world move at its own pace around him. This is why his shop dates from the eighteenth century (though perhaps now that it’s been reconstituted it really dates from the twenty-first?), his clothes are from the 1830s, his phone was brand new in 1920 and his computer hasn’t been updated since 1987. There simply is no need to rush when so much of what humans develop is fleeting anyway (he’s still mourning the death of the gavotte) and he’ll have the entire future of the planet to discover and enjoy everything else. 

Though Aziraphale has to admit that if he hadn’t dithered during the debacle of the Apocalypse that never actually happened, this wouldn’t be the case. If it hadn't been for him, it wouldn’t have come down to fifteen minutes before the total destruction of the Earth. Perhaps they would have been able to salvage something of their original plan and they wouldn’t have had to run the risk of switching places and hoping they managed to fool their respective former sides so they can be left alone. Finally. 

Which is why Aziraphale now wants to hurry for the first time in centuries, though he forces himself to slow down, mostly so he can concentrate on imitating Crowley’s snakelike saunter. Just in case anyone Below is still watching. But inwardly, his mind is all a-flutter, and he can hardly get to their bench in Berkeley Square fast enough.

He hasn’t yet figured out what he’ll do if he finds the bench empty. Crowley had seemed quite sure that Heaven’s punishment would not be as cruel as Hell’s. Aziraphale had thought about pointing out that Agnes was rather specific in her use of the word fyre, but he reasons that Crowley can usually get himself out of anything and besides, prophecies are sometimes annoyingly metaphorical even when they’re right. The whole point of switching places in the first place was precisely because hellfire wouldn’t hurt Crowley anyway, just like the holy water hadn’t done anything to Aziraphale (besides make him a bit cold in the dank corridors of Hell. Michael wasn’t very good at miracling towels).

All the same, if something had gone wrong...if Heaven had decided on any one of the other punishments they had, or worse, realized they had a demon on their hands, they could have done any number of things. Chained Crowley up forever in one of Heaven’s perfect, diamond prisons. Sent him down to Hell for them to do what they liked. The possibilities are endless, and Aziraphale is extremely sure he can’t handle that. He’s lost Heaven for himself and while that will take some getting used to he can already tell that he’ll enjoy the freedom of doing what he likes without having to constantly worry about staying in line with some Great Ineffable Plan he knows nothing about. But if he has, in fact, lost Crowley, it won’t feel like that. It would feel, he thinks, as if the world has ended after all. The image of Crowley, drowning himself in whiskey and his own tears after leaving Aziraphale’s burning bookshop flashes into his mind. Yes, exactly like that. He quickens his pace, still making sure he appears as if he’s swaggering lazily and glares at a couple of ducks for good measure.

After all, if he hadn’t moved so slowly before, maybe they would have had more time. The thought that they now have all the time in the world means nothing until he’s sure of it. 

But Aziraphale arrives at their bench to find himself slumped in the corner on one side, legs splayed out in front in a way that would look elegant if Crowley was in his own body, but just looks wrong on what appears to be Aziraphale. Still, Aziraphale thinks he might float away, he’s so relieved to see Crowley sitting there. Thank Go-no, not anymore. Thank Agnes, I suppose, Aziraphale thinks before hurrying over.

“I don’t really swagger like that, do I?” Crowley asks.

“Thought I’d better keep it up in case anyone was watching,” Aziraphale says. “And you do.” He’s always enjoyed watching it. He wonders how odd they might look to passersby, Crowley sauntering through life with his hair and clothes always the height of fashion, Aziraphale following anxiously, a century behind in fashion, a millennia behind in...well, everything else.

They’re a terrible match, really. Probably because they weren’t supposed to be a match at all. 

But Aziraphale can’t be bothered about that right now. They’ve done it. They’ve won, and he cannot wait to tell Crowley about how he actually pulled off this switch. He’s distinctly proud of having figured it out and prouder that none of Crowley’s Hellish superiors seemed to realize it was anyone other than Crowley himself in front of them. “I asked them for a rubber duck,” Aziraphale says delightedly. “And made Michael miracle me a towel!” Crowley bursts out laughing the same time Aziraphale does, and true laughter from Crowley is a rare thing. Aziraphale has always loved the few times he’s managed to bring it out.

It feels as if all is right with the world. When Crowley suggests lunch, Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. Instead, for the first time, he makes sure there will be a table for two ready at the Ritz for them.

It’s a wonderful, freeing feeling, being able to use his heavenly powers without worry. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to tempt people; Crowley has never had to do more than suggest ideas before the humans run away with them. Perhaps, Aziraphale thinks, he won’t make a habit of it. They probably still shouldn’t be calling attention to themselves, and besides, he’s discovered many wonderful restaurants because other restaurants were full when he went to them. There just wouldn’t be much fun in always making things go their way. 

But today is a day to celebrate, and so they go to the Ritz. 

Their lunches are always the same. Crowley never orders anything but alcohol and Aziraphale always orders too much, because he can’t resist insisting that whoever his lunch partner is (Crowley, it’s always Crowley) try something he finds delicious. Aziraphale always does the majority of the talking while Crowley sits there for as long as it takes, seemingly perfectly happy to watch and listen when he’s usually the one insisting that there’s no time to waste.  
Aziraphale has never questioned why Crowley is so happy to just sit and watch him eat. He already knows the answer and has never let himself think about it, because that would involve bringing up things he couldn’t let free.

He can let himself think about them now. Now that they’re both free and have nothing to worry about anymore.

He’s just finished telling Crowley about the incredulous looks on Hastur’s and Beelzebub’s faces, and how they almost seemed scared of him when the rest of what happened in Hell came back to him. He’s been so happy with his performance and having ensured Crowley’s freedom and being free himself that he almost forgot how terrible it is down there. The crowdedness of it, the dank, moldy walls. The general air of hopelessness, the simmering rage of the demons. It had clung to Aziraphale so closely he’d felt as if he was suffocating, and he had to force himself not to gasp for the breath he never needed. Underneath all that was the total absence of God’s love. To Aziraphale, it had felt as if a hole was ripped in the universe. He was a creature of love, made of it, could sense it everywhere. Its absence, he realized, was what despair felt like. He had never even been capable of feeling such a devastating emotion. And demons were surrounded by it.

No wonder they were filled with hatred. If Aziraphale had had to stay longer, he can’t see how he wouldn’t have given in to it. He thinks he might have Fallen from the sheer weight of it. And that horrible place was where Crowley came from. His Crowley, who loved life and threw himself into it enthusiastically. Who was, deep down, nicer and kinder than many angels Aziraphale could name.

“Hell is a terrible place,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I didn’t realize just how much.”

Crowley scoffs. “You thought it was a picnic on the beach?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Being there, feeling it, was entirely different from hearing about it. They killed a demon, you know. Just to test the holy water. No other reason at all.” He’d been horrified - if ever he was going to drop the charade, it would have been then. He’d held on only because he knew that if he didn’t, it would be Crowley writhing and burning in the holy water instead. He didn’t know who the small demon who’d been killed to test it was. He supposed there were no innocents in Hell, not even Crowley, but still. It had cried out so helplessly. No one deserved an end like that, no matter what they may have done. “To kill one of their own for no reason. Like that,” Aziraphale says. He sighs, wanting to get off the subject. “Well, you know all about what happened to me. What did Heaven do to you?”

Crowley looks at him, and Aziraphale can feel his sympathy, can see it even through his dark glasses. “You don’t want to know, angel.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says. “It can hardly be any worse than what your side was going to do to you.” 

“Hellfire,” Crowley says, after a moment’s silence.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “At least we know Agnes was right.”

“Wasn’t just that,” Crowley says. “They didn’t even give you a trial. A chance to defend yourself.” He sounds angry, as if he’s ready to storm back into Heaven and tear the lot of them apart. “Just like that demon.”

“I was a soldier,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Soldiers are expendable.” He isn’t sure what to think. He did expect that he might be given some opportunity to defend himself - Heaven has form after form and department after department dealing with complaints, and he expected to find somewhere he could log his official account. But then, Crowley and the other angels who Fell hadn’t been given a chance either, and most of them hadn’t done more than question the Great Plan. Aziraphale had set himself directly against it, working on his own plan, refusing to obey his orders and then finally publicly declaring his allegiance to Earth and to a demon of Hell. Angels are expected to obey, to do what Heaven’s leaders say without question, knowing that punishment awaits if they don’t. What need is there for a trial? Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do and if they aren’t doing it, they are, by definition, wrong.

“Expendable?” Crowley snarls, as if the very idea is beyond belief. Insulting. Too late, Aziraphale remembers that Crowley spent a decent part of the last two days thinking he was dead.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “But you see, I didn’t expect anything better.” He gives Crowley a half smile. “I’ve never been a very good angel, and I was an even worse soldier.”

Crowley throws his head back and laughs bitterly. “Typical. Spend six thousand years tying yourself in knots trying to go along with their plans, getting all worked up the moment you do anything that isn’t Heaven-approved, just for them to throw you into a pillar of hellfire because they got the bloody Plan wrong!” He grows quiet. “He said you were stupid. Gabriel, I mean.”

“So did you,” Aziraphale says.

“Yes, well, you were being stupid right at that moment,” Crowley says. “I also said you were clever. He thinks you’re stupid all the time. Ridiculous.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley stares at him in complete disbelief.

“You knew?”

Aziraphale sighs. He isn’t sure how to explain it. How Heaven depends on everything running smoothly, or the whole bureaucracy Gabriel and Michael and Uriel created when God fell silent would fall apart. How one angel breaking free, doing anything other than their assigned job, looks like the rebellion that tore Heaven apart all those eons ago. How close any of them are to Falling at any moment, or at least that’s what Gabriel led them to believe. Crowley would say Gabriel has been taking advantage of angels’ trusting natures all these centuries to control them. Aziraphale doesn’t really want to believe that; he still thinks Gabriel and Michael and the others truly believed this was the plan they had to follow even if they were wrong in the end but there’s a part of him that can see Crowley’s point. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s trusted someone he shouldn’t. That would be that day on the wall of Eden, and Aziraphale knows he has only continued to be too trusting ever since. “Gullible” was the word Gabriel used once, such a long time ago he probably doesn’t even remember, but Aziraphale does.

Because the fact remains that Aziraphale simply isn’t very good at being an angel, if one looks at “angel” as a job description instead of a species designation. The very first thing he’d been assigned to do was guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, and what did he do instead? Give away his flaming sword, the one God made specifically for him, to Adam and Eve, to make their punishment easier to bear. He wasn’t supposed to help them in their exile but he’d been watching them for months and grown fond of them from a distance. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them defenseless in the predator-and-demon-filled wastelands around Eden.  
From there it only got worse. God had questioned him directly about his distinct lack of a sword and he’d lied to Her. Said he’d misplaced it and She somehow accepted that even though She must have known it wasn’t true. It was the last time She had spoken to him, and Aziraphale just knew it was because he’d proven he couldn’t be trusted with even one task. 

The fact that he’d confessed exactly what he’d done to Crowley (Crawley, then) just made it worse. Angels weren’t supposed to talk to demons, and this one had been responsible for the Fall of Man. Why Aziraphale had told him the truth and God a lie was something he’d never figured out. And then Crowley had told him he’d done the right thing. 

At first Aziraphale had been relieved but if a demon thought an angel had done the right thing, then surely it had to be wrong thing? Except angels who did the wrong thing Fell and Aziraphale certainly hadn’t Fallen. Besides, it had helped Adam and Eve survive those harsh years in the desert, and that couldn’t possibly be a bad thing? It was all so confusing and Aziraphale had resolved not to think about it and simply do as he was told from then on.

Except he didn’t.

He tried. But he had doubts about things they were doing that he foolishly voiced, even though he knew just asking questions had caused a war in Heaven unlike anything else in the universe. He always backed down and did what he was told after that, but ever since, no matter what he did, Gabriel and Michael and the others never seemed happy with him. They looked at him in barely concealed disgust when he mentioned something nice the humans had come up with, exchanged exasperated glances when he pointed out a different way to do things that wouldn’t result in the sort of fire-and-brimsone approach he’d never liked. They’d accused him of “going native,” so to speak, very early on.

The idea terrified him, because it was barely one step from Falling, but it was hardly his fault. Humans were so delightfully clever, and Aziraphale was a creature of love stationed on a planet that had so many things to love about it. Everything the humans did was the opposite of what angels were, and not in the Grand, Evil ways of demons. In the little things. The way humans took anything and everything they could eat and made it into so many different varieties, all delicious, where angels were supposed to stay pure and ethereal, keeping themselves for Heaven alone. By the time Aziraphale realized he’d put on some noticeable weight around his midsection, Gabriel had already honed some pointed jabs about “gross matter” and “being soft.”

Angels were supposed to trust the Plan without knowing much about it, or anything else. Take it on faith, Gabriel had always said. Faith proved something that knowledge didn’t. But humans wanted to know everything; they wrote books of science and philosophy and figured out all the rules of God’s universe that Aziraphale was supposed to just accept and then wrote it down. They tried so hard to know and understand and then they went beyond that and invented their own stories, the endless imagination of humanity captured for eternity. Aziraphale had been drinking in the knowledge of humanity since the invention of writing and if Michael had once said that too much knowledge destroyed faith, well, she was right. Knowing the difference between good and evil had caused the Fall. Sent Adam and Eve from the Garden. Aziraphale was no different. He was ripe for temptation and could Fall at any moment. He knew by then that Heaven viewed Earth as corrupt, a place where sin had free reign that they were barely holding onto. It was now viewed as tempting and dangerous for an angel to be on Earth too long, else that corruption influence them. Aziraphale had been there for centuries; of course Gabriel and Michael saw him as already corrupted. Another step closer to Falling, and they didn’t even know the worst of it.

By the time Crowley came around with any regularity, Aziraphale had thrown himself into enjoying life. He had been quite happy really, doing his minor miracles and spending the rest of his time collecting books, discovering restaurants and going to the theatre. But then there was Crowley, questioning and making some very good points and enjoying things like art and music the same way Aziraphale did, the same way that Gabriel and Michael thought was corrupting and scoffed at him for. Telling him at every turn it was perfectly fine to enjoy what Earth had to offer while they were stuck there anyway. 

By the time they had started the Arrangement, Aziraphale knew he was too far gone to stop. Gabriel had already made his disgust towards any angel who so enjoyed Earthly delights clear, but that would be nothing compared to how he’d react if he knew Aziraphale had been doing Crowley’s temptations for him. And doing a good job of it, too, Aziraphale had thought with some shame. Never mind spending time with him as if they were friends. Angels and demons simply couldn’t be friends; they were enemies. Opposite sides. It had never even felt wrong to Aziraphale; instead, it felt terrifyingly, thrillingly right. All that proved was that Gabriel and Michael and Uriel had always been right about those little corrupting influences he’d let in, because they led to the big things. Things like fraternizing with the enemy. Using miracles for frivolous, occasionally demonic, purposes. Tempting humans. 

Falling in love with a demon. 

Aziraphale spent what felt like forever denying it, agonizing over it, but he couldn’t help that either. He was meant to love; if he directed it at the person who had come to know him best, who he knew better than anyone, was that really so surprising? Still, he’d spent centuries convinced that Gabriel was right; that first trip to the theater, the first time he opened a scroll, the first time he accepted a piece of lamb cooked over an open fire...it had all been the start of a slippery slope down until he ended his days Fallen and in love with one of the Damned. It had been, he supposes now, inevitable from the start, and perhaps Gabriel and Michael and Uriel had always known that. They’d been right about him, in the end.

Aziraphale’s thoughts bring him back to the Ritz where Crowley is still staring at him. Aziraphale is a little surprised at the sympathetic expression on his face. Crowley has told him many times that he’s extraordinarily easy to read; that his every thought flits across his face like a film playing. Well, then, he supposes Crowley knows exactly what he's been thinking this whole time. “They’ve made it clear what they think of me,” Aziraphale says, trying to stay dignified. “You saw. Soft. Ridiculous. A hedonist - I’m sure they think I’ve been under your influence since the beginning.” Though of course that wasn’t the case. Aziraphale enjoys the comforts of life far more than Crowley ever has. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over as far as Aziraphale is concerned. He doesn’t have to see them again, ever. He has Crowley, who has always been there, and they have all the time they could ever want

Crowley shakes his head. “You’re too nice for Heaven, angel,” he says, in that half-insulting tone he uses when he’s very fond of whatever he’s talking about. Still, there’s a steel in his face that tells Aziraphale if Gabriel was here he’d be little more than a pile of goo at this point. 

Aziraphale breaks into a smile. “Oh, thank you. Still, you must admit they’re not entirely wrong, my dear. They’re hardly the first to say I’m somewhat ridiculous.” He knows that; the word has followed him throughout the centuries, and even Crowley has said it once or twice. Aziraphale is quite simply too trusting, too in love with the world, even for humans. He can’t help it, really, and he doesn’t want to. There has always been so much out there to love.

“They were going to execute you!” Crowley snaps in disbelief, but the emotion coming off of him doesn’t match his tone. Instead, Aziraphale is hit with such an unbelievably powerful wave of love that he has to stop to get his bearings. He’s used to feeling love wherever he goes, as a gentle background hum, sometimes stronger if someone near him is feeling it particularly strongly, and of course he’s used to loving everything himself so that he hardly thinks about it anymore. This, however, is different. It’s not as if Aziraphale doesn’t know where it’s coming from - he’s been aware that Crowley loves him since the church in 1941, though he feels it less frequently. They couldn’t risk it; they would both have been destroyed. He’s only felt it when Crowley can’t hold it in any longer, usually in a short burst that’s followed by at least a month of not seeing each other in case it was noticed. But right now, it feels endless, like the ocean or perhaps the night sky, and constant, as if Aziraphale could depend on it until the end of time.

It’s the match to Aziraphale’s own love for Crowley, and he’s suddenly glad demons can’t feel someone else’s emotions like this. He can’t and never could hide it the same way, and it’s so strong and so inevitably directed at Crowley that it would call every demon in the planet to them in a matter of seconds. 

So, yes, while he’s been aware that the simple fact - Crowley loves him - is true, he’s never been able to think any further about it and he’s never been able to figure out why. Demons don’t fall in love with angels, and Aziraphale, as he’s said, isn’t a very good angel. He’s soft, too kind and trusting for anyone’s good, let alone his own, he enthusiastically loves so much of Earthly life and sticks with what he loves regardless of what the current fashion is, and all he’s ever wanted is to be left alone with a book, a good meal and a hot cup of cocoa instead of having to be involved in grand plans. 

The wave of love is only getting stronger in response to whatever his face is doing as he thinks all this.

Oh.

Of course.

All the things that Gabriel and Michael saw as corrupting and worth punishing are all the things Crowley loves about him. The same way Aziraphale loves the effortless way Crowley adapts himself to whatever the height of fashion is at the time, his cutting sense of humor, the delighted way he throws off all expectations, and the sly way he’ll go about doing something nice when he’s not supposed to.

Aziraphale breaks into a smile that he’s positive is the most loving he can come up with at the moment, because it can’t not be given how much of it he’s feeling at the moment. He can’t tell whose emotions are whose anymore and he never wants the feeling to stop. It’s more intoxicating than the finest wine. Now that they’re finally free, he thinks, it doesn’t have to. He’s free to bask in Crowley’s love forever and to finally let his own fly free for all to see. 

They don’t say it out loud, because there isn’t a need to when it’s finally out in the open for Aziraphale to feel and Crowley to see and both of them to act on at last. As they leave, Crowley squeezes his hand and then slings an arm around his shoulders casually, as if they’ve always done this. Aziraphale grins even more widely, so happy he thinks he could burst with it. 

Yes, he could definitely get used to this. In fact, he doesn't think it's going to take him very long at all.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick word on Good Omens canon: I read the book ages ago, liked it, haven't read it since and was in NO WAY prepared for how much I was going to fall in love with the show. So this is entirely TV verse, aside from some very small characterizations that slipped in from the book.


End file.
